"You're sure this is the right way?" Deroq hissed, pulling his hood lower as they navigated the narrow passage. Water dripped from the ceiling, each drop landing with a maddening plop that echoed through the tunnel.

"Yes, sir," Prell whispered back, holding his lantern higher. "Third passage on the left, down the stairs, through the copper door. That's what Velth's contact said."

Deroq grunted, unconvinced. The four men behind him shuffled nervously, hands never straying far from their concealed weapons. None of them belonged here—that much was clear from their stiff postures and darting eyes. Crimson Scale operatives were accustomed to guild halls and merchant offices, not this... underworld.

The Undertow. Even the name left a sour taste in Deroq's mouth.

Their guide paused at an intersection, scratching his scraggly beard. "Left here," he muttered, more to himself than to the others.

"You said that with remarkable little confidence," Deroq noted dryly.

The guide—Marken, some distant cousin of one of their warehouse workers—shot him an irritated glance. "Been a while since I came this way. Market moves around."

"The entire market... moves?" one of Deroq's men asked incredulously.

"Not physically, you idiot," Marken snapped. "The entrances change. The routes shift. Keeps the city watch guessing."

They turned left into a passage so narrow they had to proceed single file, shoulders brushing against damp stone walls. The air grew noticeably thicker, carrying the smell of spices, smoke, and something else—something Deroq couldn't quite place but found deeply unsettling.

"Almost there," Marken said, his voice dropping to barely a whisper. "Remember, no guild colors visible. No mentions of Crimson Scale. You're just buyers. Ordinary buyers."

"We're hardly ordinary," Deroq muttered, but he checked his cloak to ensure no crimson fabric peeked out.

The passage ended at a steep staircase descending into darkness. Marken started down without hesitation, the light from his lantern casting long, distorted shadows that seemed to move independently of their owners.

Halfway down, the quality of the stonework changed abruptly. The rough-hewn passage gave way to ancient, well-crafted steps worn smooth by centuries of use. Deroq's historian side noted the craftsmanship—pre-empire, possibly even First Age work. When the elves still lived on the isles.

"These tunnels are older than the city," he remarked quietly.

Marken glanced back, surprised. "Yeah. Way older. Some say they were here before people."

"That's absurd," Deroq said automatically, though something about the perfect arch of the ceiling made him less certain than he'd like.

At the bottom of the stairs stood a door—not copper as described, but bronze with a distinct green patina. Complex symbols had been etched into its surface, worn nearly smooth by time and countless hands.

Marken pressed his palm against the central symbol, muttering something under his breath. The door slid open with surprising silence.

"We're here," he announced unnecessarily.

The space beyond defied Deroq's expectations. He'd imagined a cramped, shadowy bazaar of illicit goods. Instead, they entered what appeared to be an enormous subterranean cathedral. Vaulted ceilings stretched upward into darkness, supported by massive columns carved to resemble twisting serpents. The floor spread out in a vast circle, segmented like a wheel, with hundreds of stalls and booths arranged in concentric rings.

Light came from everywhere and nowhere—floating orbs of blue and green fire hovered near the ceiling, casting an eerie glow that seemed to bend around certain stalls, leaving them in convenient shadow.

"Gods above," one of Deroq's men whispered.

Deroq understood the sentiment. The Undertow was magnificent in its own terrible way—like staring into the maw of some beautiful predator.

"Keep close," Marken instructed, leading them into the market proper. "Don't make eye contact unless you're buying. Don't touch anything unless invited. And for all that's holy, don't haggle too hard with the wrong seller."

They moved through the outermost ring, past vendors selling items that could almost—almost—pass for legitimate merchandise. Exotic fruits, foreign spices, unusual textiles. But even here, Deroq noticed oddities: fruit that seemed to pulse with inner light, spices that changed color when touched, fabric that moved like liquid.

"Inner ring," Marken said, guiding them deeper. "That's where we'll find Thorn."

The crowd thickened as they approached the center. Deroq glimpsed faces from every corner of the known world—and some he suspected came from places no map had ever recorded.

A woman with skin like polished obsidian haggled over a cage containing what appeared to be a miniature storm cloud. A man with six fingers on each hand carefully counted out coins that seemed to glow from within. Two identical children with silver hair examined a book whose pages appeared to be made of thin metal, their expressions unnervingly synchronized.

"Don't stare," Marken hissed, noticing Deroq's wandering attention.

They passed a stall selling timepieces that displayed hours not yet arrived, another offering vials of liquid memories, and one particularly disturbing booth where a toothless old woman sold what she cheerfully described as "moments of your future."

Finally, they reached a modest stall near the center of the Undertow. Unlike the others, it had no exotic displays, no dramatic lighting—just a simple counter behind which sat a thin man with a shock of white hair and eyes that didn't quite match in color.

"Thorn." Marken nodded respectfully.

The man glanced up, his mismatched eyes—one amber, one pale blue—scanning each of them in turn. His gaze lingered on Deroq for an uncomfortable moment before a thin smile spread across his face.

"Marken," he acknowledged. "Been a while. And you've brought... friends." He said the last word as if testing its flavor and finding it questionable.

"They're buyers," Marken explained. "Interested in specialty dyes."

"Specialty dyes," Thorn repeated, his different-colored eyes never leaving Deroq's face. "Crimson, perhaps?"

Deroq stiffened, but kept his expression neutral. "Among others."

Thorn's smile widened fractionally. "Of course. You've come at an interesting time." He reached beneath his counter and produced a small wooden box, which he placed between them with deliberate care.

"Our situation requires... discretion," Deroq said carefully.

"Doesn't everyone's?" Thorn replied, running a long, thin finger over the box's lid. "Particularly those who've recently suffered unexpected... inventory issues."

Deroq's jaw tightened. News traveled fast in the Undertow, apparently.

"We're prepared to pay generously," he said, ignoring the implication.

Thorn nodded, then slowly opened the box. Inside was a single glass vial containing a liquid so deeply red it appeared almost black in the strange light.

"Southern Isles crimson," Thorn said. "The genuine article. Not that synthetic thing flooding the market."

Deroq leaned forward, interest piqued despite himself. "How much do you have?"

Thorn's mismatched eyes blinked, one lid closing a fraction of a second after the other. "Had," he corrected. "How much I had."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning," Thorn said, closing the box with a sharp snap, "that someone came through yesterday and bought my entire stock. Every last vial."

Deroq felt his stomach drop. "Who?"

"Curious about that myself," Thorn said, leaning back. "Odd fellow. Paid in advance, no haggling. Asked specifically for Southern Isles crimson and nothing else. Cleaned me out." He shrugged. "First time in twenty years that's happened."

"But you must have contacts," Deroq pressed, desperation creeping into his voice. "Other suppliers—"

"Checked already," Thorn interrupted. "Every broker in the Undertow reports the same. Someone hit all of us within hours of each other." His mismatched eyes narrowed. "Very organized. Very deliberate."

"That's impossible," one of Deroq's men blurted. "The market's too scattered, too secretive—"

"And yet," Thorn said simply, spreading his hands.

Deroq stared at the now-closed box, mind racing. This was no coincidence. Someone had systematically eliminated every alternative source of crimson dye just when they needed it most.

He clenched his fist, knuckles whitening. "Those Wangara bastards." He spat the guild name like poison. "They're strangling every supply route. When I find whoever orchestrated this—"

"You'll what?" Thorn asked, genuine curiosity in his mismatched eyes.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

"Fuck them," Deroq hissed through gritted teeth. "They have no idea what they've started."

*****

"ATCHOOO!"

The violent sneeze sent Zuni scrambling for balance, his tiny paws digging into Adom's shoulder as he nearly toppled off his perch. The quillick chittered indignantly, quills bristling.

"Sorry," Adom muttered, rubbing his nose.

"Did you catch a cold?" asked Sam.

"I don't think so," Adom replied, absently scratching behind Zuni's ear to calm him. "Honestly, I'm hardly ever sick these days because of my... condition. I don't understand where that came from."

"Hmm," Sam said. "You know, there's an old saying that when you sneeze out of nowhere, it means someone is talking about you."

Adom's lips curved into a small smile. "Heh."

"What's so funny?"

"I think I know who's talking about me," Adom said. "And likewise to them."

"You guys are basically superstars right now," Sam's voice came through the communication crystal as Adom jogged along the eastern district's cobblestone path.

"The crystals are exceeding even my expectations," Adom replied, dodging a produce cart.

"My father says the Banking Guild bought three hundred pairs on the first day alone," Sam said. "He's never seen anything launch so successfully."

"We're scaling up production, but it's still not enough," Adom said, turning onto a side street.

"And meanwhile, Crimson Scale's falling apart," Sam continued. "That confrontation in Merchant's Square yesterday was incredible. Father said he's never seen Mavarin so unhinged, publicly accusing the Silvesters of destroying their warehouse. The Watch had to step in before it got violent."

"The Silvesters won't take that lying down," Adom remarked.

"They're already filing formal complaints. The 48th seat going after Crimson Scale's 49th seat - it's the talk of the city. And with dye prices tripled overnight, people are questioning if Crimson Scale even deserves their position anymore."

Adom smiled to himself. The planted evidence had done its job perfectly.

"Father says your synthetic dye launches tomorrow?" Sam asked. "Thirty percent cheaper with better color fastness? The timing couldn't be better."

"We've been working on it," Adom said innocently, coming to a stop in front of Kern and Fili's smithy.

Sam snorted. "And I suppose you have nothing to do with that auction tonight? The one selling a multiplier artifact that could save some of Crimson Scale's dye supply?"

"Cass will be attending," Adom confirmed. "Should be an interesting evening."

A loud crash came from inside the smithy, followed by distinctive cursing.

"I should go," Adom said. "Meeting with Kern and Fili."

"Try not to destroy any more guilds before lunch, okay?"

Adom laughed. "No promises." He tapped the crystal once, ending the connection, and pushed open the door to the smithy.

"Hello?" Adom called as he pushed open the door.

"Adom!" Fili's face instantly brightened, hammer forgotten in his hand. "Master, it's Adom!"

Zuni chirped excitedly from Adom's shoulder, quills fluttering.

Fili's eyes widened. "Oh! Master, he has a creature with him!"

Kern emerged from the back of the smithy, wiping soot from her hands. "It's a quillick, Fili," she said matter-of-factly. "Don't touch its spines."

Zuni chirped again, as if in greeting, and Kern responded with a solemn nod.

"Good to see you, Kern," Adom said with a smile. "You too, Fili."

"You've been rare lately," Kern observed, leaning against her workbench. "Though your name's been on more and more tongues. The Wangara, huh?"

Adom scratched the back of his head. "It's a long story."

"Hmm," Kern responded, her expression giving nothing away. She switched topics abruptly. "What brings you by? Need repairs on something?"

"Actually—" Adom began.

Zuni chose that moment to hop off Adom's shoulder, scurrying across the workbench toward Fili, who stood frozen in fascination.

"Hello there, little one," Fili whispered, cautiously extending a finger. Zuni sniffed it curiously, then chirped and rubbed his head against Fili's knuckle, careful to keep his quills flat.

"He likes you," Adom observed.

"What is he exactly?" Fili asked, delighted as Zuni climbed onto his palm. "I've never seen anything like him."

"Quillicks are originally from the northern forests," Kern answered before Adom could. "Rare to see them domesticated. They're clever creatures, almost as smart as a ten year old human."

Zuni chirped as if in agreement, standing proudly on Fili's palm.

"He understands us?" Fili asked in wonder.

"More than you might think," Adom said with a fond smile. "He's been my companion since the start of the semester."

Kern cleared her throat. "I doubt you came by just to introduce us to your pet."

"No," Adom admitted. "I actually wanted to discuss some modifications to WAM and BAM."

"The gauntlets?" Kern raised an eyebrow. "What's wrong with them? Those are some of my best work."

"Nothing's wrong," Adom assured her quickly. "They've performed flawlessly. But I've been thinking about some potential improvements."

*****